


Eyes that can see in the dark

by CeNedraRiva



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Pitch Black (2000), The Chronicles of Riddick Series
Genre: Alien Planet, Cannibalism, Canonical Character Death, Crash Landing, Dark Harry Potter, Desert, Evil Harry Potter, M/M, Master of Death Harry Potter, Non-Human Harry Potter, Shapeshifting, Stranded, Survival Horror, The Deathly Hallows, Winged Harry Potter
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-12
Updated: 2018-02-12
Packaged: 2019-03-17 03:52:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,081
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13650858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CeNedraRiva/pseuds/CeNedraRiva
Summary: It was a bit of bad luck that the transport ship Hunter-Grazner crashed in the centre of a desert, but with water nearby and the remnants of a village for shelter, they had a chance at survival. Perhaps even escape.But the deserts of Hades are only safe during the day, and night is quickly approaching. In the shadows deep underground, hungry things are awakening, and clawing their way to the surface, ready to feed after a long famine. Among them is a being known as the Master of Death...





	Eyes that can see in the dark

Long life was necessary to those who lived in the desert of Hades. Covering over half of the land on the small moon, the desert was a harsh place baked beneath three suns. Few organisms could live in such a constant barrage of heat and light. That wasn’t to say the desert was lifeless, just close to it, particularly during the long interims between eclipses. Hades was rarely cloaked in blessed darkness, with each eclipse occurring twenty-two years apart, so any creature that wanted to take advantage of the night needed a long life simply to make it from one to the next.

In the centre of the massive pangaea, within the limestone caverns beneath the sand, there was movement. Screeches and shrieks echoed back and forth, communicating for the first time after a twenty year sleep. Telling of tunnel collapses, trapped prey, successful clutches, and the anticipation. It wasn’t long now. The famine was ending. Soon the burning light would leave the surface. Soon they would climb into the silken sky.

To fly.

To fight.

To feed.

To mate.

But not yet. Not quite.

For now the desert lay empty. Silent.

Far above the coast was a ball of fire and steel. Tumbling across the sky, there was no one watching as it fragmented in the atmosphere. Falling quicker, sharper, it was headed straight for the centre of the continent, the heart of the desert. Shedding yet more segments, the mad tumble came under control just in time to send it careening across the sand dunes, leaving a trail of molten glass and debris behind it. Underground, the shock waves travelling ahead of the fallen trade ship sent creatures scattering with panicked shrieks. Several shallow caverns collapsed under the pressure of impact, crushing the inhabitants instantly. Those unlucky others shrivelled, exposed beneath the scorching sunlight. Mournful cries came from distant tunnels, ringing with sympathy. Sunlight was not a fate any of them would envy.

On the surface the skittering ship finally came to a stop, less than a mile from another cavern entrance. It would be hours before any of them, hidden within the cool safety of the deep caverns, braved the shallow caves to investigate.

Among them, large green eyes glanced to the ceiling in curiosity.

It was interesting enough to investigate.

* * *

 

Humans had once called them bioraptors. A cry that split the air, a bogeyman to keep children in bed. Monsters of the night. Their likeness had been seen across the universe, if not their exact species.

They didn’t have a name for themselves. They didn’t need one. Every creature they ever encountered was either one of them, or prey. Some prey were more deadly than others, but they were all prey nonetheless. Stuck in the limestone caverns, they were together, the hunters, clambering across the walls and feeding on whatever prey was stupid enough to fall into the dark. Above, they were deadly, circling their prey in packs before ripping it into shreds of meat. They were the hunters, the world was prey.

But there was one being who was different. He was like them, but somehow, more so.  If they were hunters, then he was _the_ Hunter. An ancient. The spirit of feasting, of fighting and hunting. The Death Bringer.

Around Him was wrapped an aura of danger, the scent of death. They all felt it, as deep as their bones. No mere hunter would challenge Him, when he could kill with only a glance. He could heal just as easily. He told them he could see in ways they couldn’t, using light instead of sound. He could feed on plants as easily as flesh, so no living thing was safe.

He alone could bear the sunlight.

Stretching languorously, He moved towards the centre of the pack. They circled, frightened and uncertain as He hissed soothing things. Tales of freedom, flying and feasting. Of planet-wide dark for ages upon ages. The older hunters, those who had lived through the last darkness, began to echo Him, calling the younger hunters to rest and wait.

Satisfied, He began to climb through the tunnels, seeking the light once more.

* * *

 

Climbing out of a stone spire, he adjusted the melanin levels in his skin, an action now instinctive in sunlight after living here. He blinked, shifting his eyes to be smaller, less sensitive. The harsh glare of desert light was still close to blinding, enough to retrieve the goggles he’d made decades ago from fragments of bone. The glare wasn’t enough to hide the debris scattered across the sands. Spreading his wings, he made himself invisible, following the trail of destruction. In the distance he could nearly spot the main body, partially hidden in mirage.

It reminded him of something. The unnatural edges, now twisted and curved. The glass-topped boxes, smashed and coated in blood. He recognised them.

Cryo-pods. Solitary cells for long distance stasis travel. Partially asleep.

This wasn’t a meteor. It was a crashed ship.

His curiosity increased.

It had been a long time since he’d seen humans. He hoped one or two had survived.

Once he had been human, he knew. Hundreds of years ago and very far away. He wondered if they were much different from the last time he’d seen one. Wondered if he’d kill them or let them be. Perhaps he would help these ones. The last ones he had fed to his hunters during the previous eclipse. It had seemed right, at the time.

Now he wished he had kept one. Meeting those humans two decades ago had awoken a longing for company he thought he’d lost. Unfortunately they’d all been dead by then. The hunters had apologised when he explained it to them, but he knew they didn’t really understand. To them, he was another hunter. Why he’d prefer to keep one kind of prey alive and kill another was baffling to them. It wasn’t their fault. Their biology didn’t allow much in the way of compassion as it was, and it was technically his fault they’d killed the humans. The door to the caves hadn’t opened itself.

It was an odd feeling, loneliness. A mixture of apathy, longing, nostalgia and wistfulness that crawled into your chest and lodged there to slowly fester away. The hunters were fine company, but after so long among them he did want for someone closer to his natural species.

Touching down on the roof of the ship, he examined the site, extending his senses. Four humans sat in a circle nearby, apparently praying. Some more stood closer, examining the landscape. Two were climbing the ship towards him. Crouching, he crept backwards, willing himself to be unnoticeable and silent and feeling power rush through his body as it becomes so. Hidden, he watches them speak. Their grief is obvious, though the dialect is incomprehensible. Listening for a moment, he is certain it is Terran they’re speaking. It is almost familiar, one of the colonial accents, but still just beyond his grasp. Instead he watched them, their expressions, their body movements. So different to the hunters and as refreshing as nightfall.

He can feel life within the ship.

Tuning out their speech, he focused on their heartbeats, their breathing. Individual voices. Moving sand as they shifted their weight. Four humans praying, two beside the ship, two directly in front of him. Three inside.

He smiled. Eleven survivors total.

Gazing at the two in front, he decided against revealing himself. Right now he wasn’t human enough, too much Hades for them to be comfortable near him. He certainly didn’t look human.

Slipping inside through a gap in the hull, he sighed in relief. Even protected as he was, the suns were very harsh, slowing thought and tiring muscle. Following the sound of heartbeats and the scent of sweat, he climbed deeper.

Oh! Well, this was interesting.

There was a man in chains. A criminal? Prisoner? It was easy to tell he was dangerous, even with him unconscious. Footsteps were echoing away. Presumably, the other two had secured him before exploring outside. He crept closer, swinging from the wall to the floor into a crouched walk. Blindfolded too? And wearing a bit? How dangerous did they consider this man? How curious…

Scent came to him suddenly, sweat and something sweeter beneath, musk, human. Something faintly static along the edges, like ozone. Did he have magic in his blood? Shaping his own power, he brushed it against the other, drawing the static to the surface. It felt familiar, like the speech had. He couldn’t quite remember from where, but…

Altering his eyes again, suddenly he could see it, magic, coiled tightly beneath his skin. He nearly sighed in wonder. Trailing beneath tanned skin were what looked like stars, shimmering and drifting, gathering and stretching and clustering endlessly. Quiescent now, reacting only to his touch, but still active. Still alive.

Oh, but he had missed this. The beauty of magic. Hades didn’t possess any naturally magical life, despite the dire conditions it regularly faced. He had long since deactivated his sensitivity to magical energy, so as not to be constantly reminded of the absence. It was the only way to stay sane. To see magic again, and so strong…

There was a shift in the other’s breathing pattern, heart speeding up. He backed away at once, calling his magic back, climbing up overhead as he heard footsteps approaching. Hidden, he watched as a woman, blonde, entered the cabin, followed by several others. The two from before are with her, as well as a man he hadn’t seen yet. They all smelt normal, muggle. He turned back to his favourite, still chained. Blinked again.

He smiled.

The other was using magic.

Still feigning sleep, magic was gathering beneath the prisoner’s skin, soaking into his muscles, focusing on his olfactory and auditory senses.

His smile widened in understanding. Internal magic. The kind that enhanced your own natural features and abilities. Probably made the prisoner a formidable foe when facing muggle opponents. Right now he was scenting the room.

Idly, he wondered if this prisoner would be able to pick up his foreign scent among the humans.

* * *

 

The other survivors had all left, except for the captain and Johns. They stood, supposedly out of Riddick’s range of hearing, discussing him.

“Is he really that dangerous?”

“Only around humans.” The superior tone set Riddick’s hackles up, despite the accuracy of the statement. Johns was a fucking merc, and pretty unscrupulous about it too. A parasite barely worth death by Riddick’s hands, and then only because he had made himself a _nuisance._ Riddick kept himself still, listening, scenting. Ozone. Faded now, but not entirely. An unusual smell. Possibly from shorted electronics, but that didn’t quite seem to fit. Especially as the scent was mixed with another, something…reptilian, maybe? Animalistic, definitely. A native. One stealthy enough to have made it onto the ship already. He felt like smirking.

A dripping sound. Leaking fluid, from above, behind him.

The captain suddenly hissed, stepping towards him. She’d noticed the leak. She was gone seconds later, presumably to check whatever system was leaking. Johns wandered away, chuckling to himself. Riddick imagined the pleasure he’d one day feel as he watched Johns die.

Leaving him alone.

Straining his ears further, he caught distressed speech from outside. The captain’s voice, another yelling back. Asking if anyone had drinks in luggage.

Water. It was the water tank that had burst above him. He smirked.

Squinting, Riddick scanned the room through the tear in his blindfold. Alone. Still far too bright. Dry, too, enough to suck the moisture from your mouth. Shifting his hands, he flexed against the pillar, feeling for a weakness. There! A glance confirmed it, a break in the pillar. Sloppy work, they probably thought it out of reach. Continuing the flex, he shifted his body up to stand, bracing himself. Arms lifted ‘til the joints locked behind him, he tensed, letting the action pop his shoulders out of their sockets. Grimacing, Riddick lifted them further, barely reaching the gap in the pillar, before with an effort and a grunt, forcing the joints back in. Grabbing the cutting torch Johns had so kindly positioned in front of him, he let himself relax into a crouch, resting the aching muscles for a second before working on the shackles.

Riddick was outside only a minute later.

* * *

 

He watched the prisoner leave, amused. He _liked_ this one. He could look after himself, which is more than could be said for the others, who were currently devoted to such important tasks as burying the bodies of the dead instead of scavenging. This was a desert. They had no food. There were some things that just were not worth the energy expended. If they couldn’t find any food in the debris, then it would be necessary to practice cannibalism or starve. It was a truth the hunters were aware of, although they preferred to kill off their old rather than the young.

The blond man swept inside, swore and ran back out. Didn’t take them too long to notice then. How much of a chance did that give the prisoner?

Hidden in the shade at the side of the ship, he watched them bustle, handing out bits of scrap that appeared to aid breathing. He had forgotten the atmosphere here was harsh too. That would likely inhibit their efforts to survive. He sighed, unheard and unseen, just listening to the sound of speech. It was coming back to him, bit by bit. Slow going, but he didn’t mind. Even isolation for a short time can reduce your language skills, and he’d been here long enough for the language to evolve.

It was as he felt the searing light of the blue sun illuminate his hiding place that he first recognised words among the garble.

“Blue sun, blue water.”

He grinned. They weren’t wrong, exactly, but at least they were focusing on survival now. Maybe one of them even knew how to fix the water pump in the village.

Stretching out his senses once more, he relocated each of the survivors, a task made easier by the fact that they were all on the surface. No life lived in the top few feet of the desert strata, lest they be scorched. Ten survivors near the ship, one in the boneyard. His prisoner? And – oh! A twelfth survivor, about a kilometre and a half down the debris trail. Lucky man, to survive the crash from that height, although maybe that should be unlucky, judging by his wounds. That man would not survive another day, bleeding internally as he was. He dismissed him.

Jumping up, he let the air catch him as he flew towards the boneyard. Maybe his favourite was doing something interesting.

* * *

 

Riddick was hunting.

Creeping across the rib joints of the dead monster, he tracked their movement with his eyes.

The captain.

The priest.

The children.

Johns.

Which would make the best target? Easiest to take down? Which would give the best hunt? The most enjoyable to stalk? Which would provide the biggest advantage? The best chance at survival? None had water yet, although even whisky would be acceptable in this aridity. When dehydrated, any fluid was a bonus. That left the captain and Johns as the most desirable, the priest wouldn’t touch alcohol. And they were wandering from the group. Perfect.

Maybe he could even take Johns out while he was unaware.

The sound of creaking bones had Riddick tensing. Glancing to the side, he noticed another figure, obviously different from the others, resting on the crest of the rib cage. Poised to spring, he waited for the other to act. To show himself friend or foe. Prey or predator.

The other was apparently examining him back, before the relaxation in his frame showed his decision not to attack. A smart move. Riddick would not go easy just because the other had a smaller body.

He didn’t look like a crash survivor. Wrapped in rags that covered most of his body, and with bone goggles across his eyes, he looked like some sort of wild tribe desert native, confirmed as he took a draw from some sort of drinking skin. Riddick wondered if it was the same who’d crept onto their ship. Unfortunately, what little breeze there was here was moving towards the other, and he couldn’t get a scent.

Seemingly hesitant, he watched as the other removed the goggles, flinching in the bright light, before giving a grin. He looked young, maybe on the cusp of adulthood. Riddick’s eyes couldn’t pick up any true colours, but his hair seemed dark and messy, coated in dust. Black facepaint was smeared around his eyes, probably to help reduce the glare. One or two scars were visible in the gaps between the rags, and it was obvious the other was strong for his size from the wiry muscle beneath his skin. Several blades were holstered across his body, and small bags containing who knew what were hanging off him at random intervals.

Tilting his head the other blinked, before slowly stepping forwards. Riddick tensed in response, watching as he covered half the distance between them before pausing, and laying down the leather canteen. Grinning he darted back to his previous position, gesturing at the fluid filled bag.

Riddick felt one eyebrow raise in suspicion. It couldn’t be that easy, could it? His luck didn’t work like that. But, creeping forwards to pick up the skin, he couldn’t detect anything wrong with the water inside. After three gulps, he lowered it, glancing at the still smiling native. Idly he wondered if they even spoke the same language.

“Keep.”

Apparently he did speak. But his voice sounded odd, lilting and hissing. Terran wasn’t his native tongue then. Riddick mentally shrugged. He wasn’t one to reject aid when he needed it.

Readjusting his goggles, the native boy began to back away, near silent over the bones. Riddick had to strain to hear him. And then suddenly he was gone, disappeared behind an outcropping bone, barely a whisper on the sand.

Riddick took another drink, near draining the skin as he turned back to his prey, stalking in the direction of the captain. As he did, he memorised the scent clinging to the drinking skin. Dust and sweat, old blood and reptile, and beneath that, ozone and something that made him feel cold, like glacial air. Very unusual.

It made Riddick feel glad he hadn’t pre-emptively attacked. Some deep instinct warned him that that scent was not something he could beat.

* * *

 

Meeting his favourite had started all sorts of memories flying through his head. Memories of red hair, familial warmth. Snow coating hill after hill. Using wands to make colourful light. The old sweet grief of watching them die. Old memories. Human memories. Back on a place called Earth, where he’d battled a snake man.

There was a name, just beyond his grasp. His own name, he’d never needed another, despite being given them. It was related to those early pack mates, the girl who knew everything and the boy who knew chess. Odd, that he could remember chess and not his name. There had been another, his nest mate, a beautiful huntress with hair like fire. He missed her too. They had many clutches together, perhaps some of their young’s clutches were still alive. It had been a long time ago. They had to have grown and mated by now.

Resting in the shade of the caves near the crash, he reminisced. Brave now in his presence, some of the bioraptors climbed higher, trying to echolocate the prey stalking across the surface. There were good vibrations coming from nearby. The sound of digging. Maybe if the digging went deep enough, they’d be safe from the light enough to hunt. He smiled at their eager hisses.

Perhaps his memories had been tainted by spending too long amongst his hunters. Words like clutch and pack mate, they didn’t fit quite right. Especially, he realized with a flush, since he was thinking them in the screeches of bioraptors instead of a human language.

Screams attracted his attention. Human ones, followed by gunshots and screeching. He sprang up the inside of the spire to survey the landscape, noticing his favourite prisoner and another survivor approaching the hole. It was too late, of course. He had felt it as the life was snuffed out, but it was human nature to be inquisitive. Besides, they’d need to know about his hunters to survive the coming night. It was only a few sun cycles away.

His favourite reached the kill site first, of course. Even if magic had not been flowing through his veins, he was physically superior. He felt a smile stretch across his lips, eyes trailing over the man’s figure as he examined the pit. Even the way his favourite moved was predatory, precise and quiet, muscles shifting beneath his skin. Balanced on the balls of his feet, it was obvious he could twist into a pounce or sprint down prey nearly effortlessly. Watching him tilt his head, catching the hissing beneath the ground, it brought to mind the image of a lounging nundu listening out for an approaching wyvern.

Of course, his appreciative ogling had to be interrupted by the arrival of the female survivor.

* * *

 

Reaching the pit had Riddick uneasy. Only a minute before the prospector had been here, screaming, shooting. Now, nothing. Not even a body, and barely a blood splatter. Any creature that could disappear a body that quick was a threat. A vaguely reptilian scent drifted up, mixed with the coppery tang of blood. Instinct told him he was being watched, but he couldn’t spot from where.

On edge, Riddick shifted a little closer, tilting his head to try and catch the whispers coming from underground. Hissing clicks and soft screeches echoed up, muffled by the sand and dirt. Running footsteps announced the first of the survivors arriving. Slowly, he stood, moving fluidly as he twisted to face the female prospector. She had frozen, intimidated, at the sight of him. Riddick held back a smirk, taking the opportunity to bolt.

He hadn’t been expecting Johns.

* * *

 

It made something twinge deep in his gut to see the predatory human so weak and helpless. Of course, he could appreciate that the blond man was taking advantage of an obvious weakness. He wouldn’t win in anything resembling a fair fight. But – he flinched as the man knocked his favourite unconscious – there was something intrinsically wrong about seeing the prisoner blinded and in pain. It was like removing a viper’s fangs.

The twisting sensation didn’t lessen as they dragged the prisoner – Riddick, they called him – back to the ship. He wanted to interfere. Crouch over Riddick’s prone body and snarl at the enemies until he regained consciousness and could defend himself again. Hunt alongside the man, their wings brushing as they brought down a lizard-auroch together, terrifying the flocks of sprinting bird.

They disappeared into the ship.

He blinked. Shook his head.

Riddick was human, not his mate and not a bioraptor besides. Appreciating hunting instinct didn’t mean mating with the man.

_-except it did, to hunters it did, it meant fighting, hunting, proving his skill to the hunter, taking down prey in tandem, blood dripping from their claws-_

He shook his head again. He wasn’t a bioraptor either, no matter that he had been living a lot like one for the past century or so. Humans didn’t work like that. It must be the Frenzy approaching, clouding his mind with their instinct. Normally it wasn’t too much of a problem, surrounded by bioraptors. He’d never had the urge to choose and mate with one of _them,_ thankfully. Seeing a human potential mate must have triggered this lapse. Riddick was a fine specimen, primal magic and all. Okay, so perhaps the idea of mating with Riddick was rather intriguing, now that he was consciously thinking about it.

The urge to interfere had yet to dissipate. It probably wouldn’t. And he could admit, he did want a closer look at Riddick. To speak with him, maybe see if he was interested in mating. They’d have fun together, either way.

Gliding down to the shadow of the ship, Harry began to transfigure his clothing into survivor’s rags, cleansing the paint from around his eyes. Better to infiltrate until he caught the hang of being human again.


End file.
